


Either Way

by AShortWalkToDelinquency



Series: 12 days of XXXmas [3]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s01e20 Like Father ..., Hurt with not a lot of comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Threats, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27915862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AShortWalkToDelinquency/pseuds/AShortWalkToDelinquency
Summary: "Oh, Malcolm," Nicholas grabs hold of Malcolm's jaw with a fierce grip and yanks him forward so their faces are only inches apart. "You keep forgetting you have no say in anything anymore. Don't worry, I fully intend to break you in. You'll understand soon enough that you're nothing more than one of my many,manypossessions."
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Nicholas Endicott
Series: 12 days of XXXmas [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2037679
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	Either Way

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags, please. If rape or non-con elements are triggering for you, you're going to want to skip this one.
> 
> ❤

He feels helpless. Useless. 

Dani and JT are off serving the warrants on Endicott's home and offices, hopefully finding evidence of at least one of the scores of crimes he's committed or arranged. The man has gotten away with so much for so long, that Malcolm can only pray his reign of terror comes to an end tonight. 

As much as he wants to be there, to help bring down the man who is actively destroying his life and hurting the people he loves, he can't. He's still a murder suspect. He can't go with them to search for proof of his innocence, or even a crime scene to process, because his mere presence would compromise any evidence they find.

(It hurts too much to consider that the crime scene in question may still turn from 'attempted murder' to 'murder' if Gil doesn't pull through his surgery, so he steers clear from that line of thought altogether.)

And so he leaves the team to wage their war while he sits.

And waits.

He loses himself in his head, in visions of Eve and Gil, dead and dying, and his father trying to gouge a man's eyes out with his thumbs. Everything went sideways so quickly that he was neck deep in the middle of it all before he even realized the dangers that were circling him. 

The guilt is eating him alive. He should have seen it all sooner. Should have made the connections and realized there was more at stake than just finding out what happened to the girl in the box — to Sophie Sanders. He should have realized there were deeper, darker reasons for Martin's strident denial that there was ever a body in that trunk than just covering his ass or gaslighting Malcolm.

He should have seen the signs that something bigger was at play.

And now it's too late.

Too late for Eve, who paid the ultimate price for their reckless digging. Perhaps even too late for Gil, who was only trying to protect Jessica because Malcolm asked him to, begged him to. The question of whether it's too late for Martin, or even for Malcolm himself remains to be seen.

And it's destroying him.

So when his phone buzzes, he considers it a welcome distraction from the maelstrom in his mind. He holds his breath as he pulls it from his pocket, hoping it's JT or Dani with the figurative smoking gun that will see Endicott locked up for the rest of his life. 

Instead, it's three simple words from Ainsley that make his blood run cold.

_Come home. NOW!_

It's almost funny that he doesn't need to ask for more information. Though neither of them have lived at the Milton Estate for over a decade, he knows that's where she means by 'home.'

And he knows — deep down in the marrow of his bones he _knows_ — that Nicholas Endicott is there.

He considers calling for back-up like Gil's been trying to convince him to do for so long, but he's not willing to put the team in any more danger than they already are. Besides, if it's just him and Endicott, he's hoping he can talk the man down. Or, at the very least, take a page out of Martin's book and strike a new deal for his family's safety. 

He'd sell his soul to the devil himself if it meant keeping his loved ones safe.

He leaves without a word, knowing Jessica will be furious when she comes back to an empty waiting area, but he also knows that time is of the essence and he's burning through it faster than he can afford. He practically sprints to the front doors of the hospital and flags down the nearest cab he can find.

In less than fifteen minutes (thanks to a very generous tip to the driver that ensured red lights and posted speed limits didn't hinder their progress), he's facing his childhood home.

He doesn't give himself time to think it through, to second-guess himself. Instead, he sucks in a breath and barrels through the front door.

"Ains!" he shouts before the door has even slammed shut behind him. He's not aiming for stealth. He's not aiming for anything really. He's not entirely sure he's thinking at all, but rather reacting on a basic instinct to _protect._ When he doesn't get an answer right away, he shouts again. Louder. "Ainsley!"

"Malcolm, for heaven's sake," a familiar voice calls out from the sitting room — at a much more reasonable volume and without the hit of panic that suffused Malcolm's own voice. It makes his skin crawl. "There's no need to shout."

Closing his eyes and taking a measured breath, he attempts to calm himself, to conceal his fear, before walking the short distance to the sitting room.

Nicholas is on the settee to the left as he walks in — presumably, Malcolm thinks, because it's closest to the bar. He's lounging comfortably, perfectly at ease in his surroundings, with one leg crossed casually over the other and one arm resting along the back of the settee. If it weren't for the welt on his forehead, he'd look every inch the GQ model, oozing charm and confidence in his perfectly tailored five-figure suit.

"Where's my sister?" Malcolm demands as he looks around the room and notices Ainsley isn't with Nicholas like he'd been expecting. A wave of _something_ surges through Malcolm at the realization, but Malcolm isn't quite sure if it's relief or terror.

"Oh, she's fine, Malcolm," Nicholas smiles that smarmy fucking smile that has Malcolm clenching his hands into painfully tight fists. "She's upstairs. And don't worry, one of my men is keeping an eye on her to make sure she doesn't do something...ill-advised."

Malcolm's eyes dart to the ceiling, as though his gaze can pierce through layers of plaster and beams and floorboards to see that she's safe if he just tries hard enough. Just as he's getting ready to turn, to run upstairs and make sure Endicott's thug isn't hurting her, Nicholas continues to speak.

"She's fine Malcolm. No one will lay a finger on her unless I tell them to."

The threat is implicit. _If you don't do as I say, I'll make sure she pays the price._

"What do you want?" Malcolm turns to face Endicott fully, rage thrumming through his veins with an intensity that leaves his whole body vibrating with an almost imperceptible tremor that rocks him from head to toe.

A lazy smile curls over Endicott's lips, spreading wide and menacing on his face as his eyes drift over Malcolm's form. He swirls the last of his drink in his glass before he tosses it back and shifts in his seat, his body language conveying his intent to stand before he even moves, prompting Malcolm to take a subconscious step back. When Nicholas moves, it's leisurely and self-assured, in no hurry to move or explain, unquestionably aware that he holds all the cards and doesn't need to rush. When finally gets to his feet, it's to skirt around the settee and make use of the bar once again, deftly choosing one of mother's finest scotches to refill his crystal tumbler.

Malcolm takes advantage of the moment of solitude that Nicholas has unintentionally afforded him to smother his anger and his fear and that all-consuming sense of failure that's trying to suffocate him. His family needs him, and if he's going to be any help to them at all, he needs to keep a clear head. He needs to think, to outsmart the cunningly clever man in front of him.

By the time Nicholas turns back around — with two tumblers in hand — Malcolm feels more like himself. Calm. Prepared to observe, profile, and act accordingly.

He arches an eyebrow as Nicholas hands him one of the glasses, but Nicholas levels him with an unimpressed look that leaves no doubt he expects Malcolm to accept the drink. It's a test, Malcolm knows, and he's not willing to die on this particular hill, so he accepts the glass. 

He has no intention of actually drinking it.

"Come, sit, make yourself at home," Nicholas gestures to the settee he recently abandoned. Malcolm refuses to be bothered by the way Nicholas is treating his mother's home — the Milton family home — as if it's one of his own possessions, ignoring the sense of entitlement that rolls off of the man in waves. But when Malcolm makes a move to sit on the nearby chair, Nicholas takes a firm hold of his arm and steers him towards the settee instead, his grip bordering on painful as he says, "This is a conversation best held in close quarters."

Malcolm grits his teeth and allows Endicott to guide him exactly where he wants him, then sucks in a sharp breath when Nicholas lowers himself next to him, so close to one another their thighs are touching. This time when Nicholas extends his arm across the back of the settee, it's directly behind Malcolm, reminiscent of a lover's embrace. Malcolm shifts slightly, ostensibly straightening his jacket, to cover the shudder that rips through him.

"Now Malcolm," Endicott says as though he's speaking to a child. "There seems to be a misunderstanding between us."

Endicott takes a sip of his drink and gestures for Malcolm to do the same. Unwilling to cause waves this early in the conversation, Malcolm brings the glass to his mouth and tilts it, the amber liquid flowing up against his firmly sealed lips, wetting them slightly but passing no further.

He knows he needs his wits about him for this conversation and alcohol isn't going to help with that.

When he pulls the glass back, he instinctively runs his tongue over his lips, the smoky flavours exploding on his taste buds. Nicholas's grin edges into a sneer and Malcolm realizes that maybe it wasn't the alcohol he needed to be worried about at all. His eyes shoot from Nicholas to the glass he's holding, back to Nicholas, but he already knows there's something in the drink.

He leaps to his feet and tosses the drink — glass and all into the fireplace.

"So dramatic, Malcolm," Nicholas chuckles, but stays firmly seated as he looks up in amusement. "You certainly take after your mother in that regard."

"What was in it?" Malcolm shouts and angles himself to the door, ready to run upstairs and find Ainsley before things get any more off track.

"Probably about $300 worth of scotch," Nicholas laughs outright as he looks at the mess in the fireplace and then turns back to Malcolm to add, "And something to help you relax a little. Now, I added enough that you'll surely die if you actually took a sip of your scotch. I assumed, though, that you'd be too cautious to accept a drink from me and likely just absorbed a hint of it. A calculated gamble, you understand. Do I need to be concerned about you keeling over before we have our talk, or did I read you correctly?"

"You fucker," Malcolm whispers and spins towards the door, steading himself on the back of a nearby chair when his balance isn't quite what it should be, hating himself for being so predictable that Nicholas knew he'd only allow the liquid to hit his lips but not actually drink the proffered beverage.

"Now, now, Malcolm. There's no need for such invectives," Nicholas scolds, his eyebrows pulling tight like he's truly offended. "I think we can have this conversation like gentlemen. Come. Sit. We have much to discuss."

Malcolm manages three steps to the door before he hears the sound of Nicholas's tumbler hitting the table with a thud. "Sit the fuck down Malcolm, or everyone you've ever cared about will discover exactly how much power I wield."

It stops him in his tracks. It's no idle threat and Malcolm knows it.

Malcolm turns slowly, mindful of the way his muscles are starting to feel jelly-like and overused. He can still stand, still think clearly, he's just beginning to feel very relaxed. Maybe a little tired. But he lives in a perpetual state of fatigue and it makes no difference to him now.

Endicott is sitting forward, looking far less casual than he did a moment ago. But when Malcolm begins a slow walk back towards him, he relaxes against the settee once again, a pleased smile creeping over his face.

"Good boy," Nicholas says condescendingly as Malcolm resumes his position next to Endicott, leaving an inch or two of space between them this time. Nicholas arches an eyebrow, the corner of his lips twitching up in amusement, but he lets it slide. For now. "As I was saying. There seems to be a slight misunderstanding as to what exactly is happening here. You seem to be labouring under the impression that you have some degree of autonomy here. You don't. I own you, Malcolm. I own your entire family."

Malcolm opens his mouth to argue — though he's not entirely sure what he plans to say — but Nicholas's hand lands on his thigh, squeezing hard enough that Malcolm is certain to be bruised come morning. His jaw slams shut and the pressure abates.

"So I've arranged this little discussion to ensure you understand exactly where you stand." Endicott's voice becomes lower, more intimate as he closes the gap between them and slides his hand from about halfway up Malcolm's thigh all the way up to the crease where his leg meets his body. When Malcolm jerks away, prepared to jump to his feet, Nicholas holds him down and growls, "It's you or Ainsley."

Malcolm's world grinds to a halt, his mind spiraling. _This can't be happening_ Malcolm thinks to himself as Nicholas cups his groin and rubs. Hard.

"The Whitly's belong to me now, Malcolm. To deal with as I please." Nicholas pulls his palm from Malcolm's lap and takes hold of his hand, smirking at the tremor that's ripping through it. "Oh my. This could actually be quite useful."

Nicholas pulls Malcolm's hand over and guides it to his growing erection, now tenting the front of his trousers. The quiet groan that falls from Nicholas's lips as Malcolm's hand twitches and jerks and makes him grow harder still has bile flooding Malcolm's mouth as he weakly tries to pull his hand from Endicott's grasp.

"Mmmm, this is certainly something I could get used to," Nicholas groans as Malcolm's hand unwittingly provides the perfect stimulation. "I was thinking, I may just keep a Whitly at home full time. Have one of you there to service my needs whenever the urge hits. Now, I've already had your mother," Nicholas licks his lips and looks deep in Malcolm's eyes as he adds, "so many times. In a mind blowing number of ways. A little spitfire in the sack, that one."

Malcolm just barely manages to keep from throwing a punch, halted by his next words. 

"Now Ainsley," Nicholas grins, looking every inch the predator he is. "With that tight little body of hers, I'm sure she'd be ferocious between the sheets."

"Don't you fucking touch her," Malcolm spits, though the words slur a little as his muscles continue to relax from whatever drug was in his drink. With Nicholas's unfettered access to the lab he was using to tamper with evidence, Malcolm wouldn't be surprised if he had something special cooked up for this purpose.

He wonders how many other people Nicholas has extorted in this manner.

"Oh, Malcolm," Nicholas grabs hold of Malcolm's jaw with a fierce grip and yanks him forward so their faces are only inches apart. "You keep forgetting you have no say in anything anymore. Don't worry, I fully intend to break you in. You'll understand soon enough that you're nothing more than one of my many, _many_ possessions."

Nicholas gives Malcolm's face a shove, hard enough that Malcolm, with his drug-heavy and unresponsive muscles, falls against the arm of the settee with a startled gasp.

"But let it not be said that I'm an unmerciful man, Malcolm," Nicholas says, his fingers gliding to the button and fly of Malcolm's pants, swatting away Malcolm's clumsy hands as he tries to brush him off. "I'm offering you a deal here. I'd expect you to show a little appreciation."

Endicott has Malcolm's pants undone and halfway down his thighs before Malcolm even has the wherewithal to push himself back up, his uncoordinated limbs moving out of sync with one another.

"What?" Malcolm bites out, his tongue moving so much slower than his mind.

"You for her, Malcolm," Nicholas sighs, sounding mildly irritated that he's having to break it down into such simple terms. "I'm going to take my pleasure with one of you tonight—" Nicholas pauses, his eyes drifting up as he considers and adds, "and whenever else I feel like it. And I'm letting you decide if you want me to use you, or your sister. Honestly, I could go either way. You Whitlys really are something else"

Malcolm stops breathing altogether as the ultimatum fully settles on him, a crushing weight that makes it impossible to fill his lungs, impossible to move at all.

He shakes his head, a clumsy movement that feels drunken and entirely ungraceful as he tries to get his mind and his mouth on the same page. He needs to talk Nicholas out of this idea. Needs to find a way to offer something else to the man, something less reprehensible, something he won't despise himself for in the morning.

"Nicholas, please." The words pour out slow and thick as molasses, but he keeps pushing on. "There must be something else. Please don't do this."

Nicholas looks down at him with a vicious glee in his eyes that sends a shiver shooting up Malcolm's spine. And with that look, Malcolm realizes that there's nothing he could possibly offer that Nicholas would want. The man has everything. The only thing Nicholas wants is to exert his power, and this is how he's going to do it.

As understanding seeps into his body, Endicott leans over him, pushing him down into the settee with a warm hand splayed over his chest. "Time is wasting, Malcolm," Nicholas says, the threat clear in his tone. There's a spark of fire in the man's eyes as he gets even closer and whispers, "Just say the word and I can go upstairs, unwrap your sister like the perfect present she is. I bet I can really make her scream. We can find out if she's as vocal as your mother is."

When Endicott pulls back and rises smoothly to his feet, Malcolm's voice follows, cracked and broken and full of heavy resignation, "Don't. Use me instead."

If he hadn't been drugged, if he had full control of his body, Malcolm would make a move against Nicholas. But like this? Like this, he's damn near useless and anything he tries will just serve to incense Nicholas. If it was only his life on the line, Malcolm would risk it in a heartbeat, but he knows how this works. Anything he tries will be taken out as punishment on his family. If he's going to take a shot, he cannot afford to risk missing. Which means he needs to buy himself some time to get the drug out of his system before he can make a move. And he needs to keep Endicott away from Ainsley while that happens.

He's always said he would do anything to protect his family, and now is the time to put his money where his mouth is.

There's nothing he can do to stop the tears that start to spill from his eyes, but he doesn't give Nicholas the satisfaction of looking away. 

"What do you want me to do?" Malcolm asks fumbling to push himself up to a seated position once again. His eyes dart briefly to the bag stuffed under the settee on the other side of the room, remembering the loaded gun that's stashed on the top, then back to Nicholas before the man can track the movement.

If he can keep Nicholas occupied long enough for his body to metabolise the drug, then he might be able to end this whole thing for once and for all. One shot. One bullet is all it would take to save them, and as much as he despises the idea of becoming a killer, of proving Martin right, confirming that they're the same, he's willing to make that sacrifice for his family. 

Nicholas smiles at his resolve, loosening his tie and tugging it off as he walks in front of Malcolm, making sure his bulging package is on display right in front of Malcolm's face.

Malcolm swallows around the lump in his throat, visions of all of the sexual assault crime scenes he's ever attended swimming behind his eyes.

Nicholas palms himself over his trousers. "I think I'll skip using your mouth today, just to be safe. Wouldn't want you getting any ideas about biting down," Nicholas actually chuckles at that, like the idea amuses him. "Once I've broken you in a little — broken you _down_ a little — well, then I'll make good use of that mouth of yours. Maybe keep you under my desk at the office and use you as a cockwarmer. You wouldn't be adverse to a change in career, would you?"

When Malcolm doesn't answer, Nicholas's hand shoots out and grabs hold of his face once again, squeezing hard enough to add a few more tears to Malcolm's already damp cheeks.

"No," Malcolm grits out.

"No what?" Nicholas asks like he's prompting a child to use their manners.

"No, I wouldn't mind being your cockwarmer." Malcolm nearly throws up at the words but Nicholas is still looking at him expectantly, so he bites out a stunted, "Sir?"

It's clearly the right choice because the grip of his face releases and becomes a light tap on the side of his face. "It would serve you well to remember that title going forward."

There's no time to dwell on how his stomach is twisting and threatening to climb out his throat at the permanence that Nicholas's warning implies, before Nicholas knocks him back and grabs hold of his pants, yanking them down, knocking his shoes to the floor as well as he pulls them off. He jerks so hard that Malcolm can barely stop himself from falling to the floor along with his clothes.

Nicholas doesn't bother with any of the clothes above Malcolm's waist. They don't matter for what he has planned. In a matter of seconds, though, Malcolm's boxer-briefs join the pile of his clothes on the floor, leaving his most vulnerable area exposed to the monster in front of him.

"There must be something else I can do. Some way I can help your organization besides this," Malcolm's words are still sticking in his mouth, tripping over themselves in their haste to get out. Panic builds in his chest as he watches Nicholas unzip his pants and pull himself through the opening, stroking himself as he watches the terror build in Malcolm's eyes.

Which, Malcolm knows, is exactly why Nicholas is as throbbingly hard as he is. The power he holds over Malcolm is a potent aphrodisiac to someone like Nicholas Endicott. This won't be about sex or pleasure; it will be about power.

And Nicholas has it all.

Still stroking his cock, Nicholas reaches his free hand into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a condom. He only looks away long enough to rip open the foil and slip it on, and then his eyes are trained on Malcolm once again, drinking in the building fear and helplessness that he's sure are absolutely pouring from him.

"I could...I could be your inside man at the NYPD," Malcolm pleads, fighting the urge to run that's nearly smothering him with it's intensity. It's worse because he knows that he could. He could run out the front door right now and Nicholas wouldn't even try to stop him. Nicholas would just walk up the stairs to where Ainsley is being kept locked up and exert his power over her instead. So he grips the cushion below him and fights the urge to flee, trying one last time to change Endicott's mind. "Um, I could keep you updated on investigations. Make evidence disappear for you."

Not that he ever would. He just needs time, dammit, and he's running out far too quickly.

"Do you know how many officers and city officials are already working for me, Malcolm?" Nicholas says casually as he grabs Malcolm's hips and jerks him so his ass is hanging off the edge of the cushion and his body is slightly folded against the back of the settee. "Honestly, you'd find the number staggering. There's nothing you can offer me that I don't already have."

Nicholas spreads Malcolm's knees open and moves between them and suddenly Malcolm can't fight the panic, can't just lay there and let him do this. He tries to push himself up, his body listing to the left when one arm responds faster than the other, but Endicott pushes him down easily, one hand holding his shoulder while his other tilts Malcolm's hips up, dragging them up Nicholas's thighs. Awkwardly folded and fighting off the effects of the drug, Endicott barely even needs to hold him down. 

Nicholas releases Malcolm's shoulder to grab hold of his cock and line it up with Malcolm's hole.

"Nicholas, please," Malcolm's arms work to push himself up, to push Nicholas away but it's useless. He's no match for the man. Not like this. "You don't have to—"

Malcolm's pleading words are reduced to an ear-piercing scream as Nicholas thrusts his hips forward, forcing himself through the tight ring of muscle and deep into Malcolm's body. 

He's not gentle. He has no reason to be. Nicholas slams home in one violent thrust, his balls slapping up against Malcolm's body as he holds him in place with a crushing grip.

Malcolm howls as the pain rips through his body, feeling the muscle and tissue tearing around Nicholas's cock as it stretches him wide — too wide — dry and unprepared. He freezes in place, every tiny movement feeling like it's rending his insides into a stinging, screaming mess of bloodied flesh.

Endicott's grip on his hips gets impossibly tighter as the man pulls back just a few inches and slams back in with a moan.

Malcolm screams as the pain swells and builds and he's sure the pressure inside of him is going to kill him, that _this_ is how he's going to die. He chokes on the sobs that convulse his chest and tighten his throat but Nicholas shows no mercy, setting up a brutal pace almost immediately.

He can hardly see around the tears that flood his eyes, leaving the room that he knows so well blurry and indistinct, but he doesn't need to _see_ Endicott to _feel_ the man's gaze locked on him, watching him scream and cry, watching as his fingernails rip into the fabric of the cushion beneath him.

When the pain becomes so overwhelming that even his hitching sobs die away, his chest bucking and begging for air that he can't manage to suck in around the fire that's consuming his body, Nicholas slows his vicious pace to a long leisurely roll that should feel better but is somehow infinitely worse.

"Jesus, Malcolm." Endicott's groan makes it perfectly clear just how much he's enjoying their encounter. "You're making this even better than I expected."

"Stop," Malcolm sobs when he finally manages to suck in a breath, dangerously close to blacking out. "Please."

The tiny part of him that's not focused on the pain is embarrassed by how broken he sounds as he pleads for Nicholas to stop. The rest of him just wants the pain to end. 

"Is that what you want?" Endicott abruptly stops, his hips stilling while he's buried halfway in Malcolm's ass, his arms straining to hold Malcolm in place. "I will. I'll stop right now. I'll even bring in a doctor to look you over. Just say the word."

Endicott's gaze floats to the ceiling, to Ainsley, a hungry look settling on his features that steels Malcolm's resolve to submit to whatever Nicholas demands of him, regardless of how much it hurts.

Malcolm gives his head a tight shake.

Nicholas smiles, cruel and twisted and counterfeit.

"That's what I thought," Nicholas snaps his hips to drive his point home and Malcolm whimpers as the pain flares deep inside of him. "As I said, I'm being very generous here, Malcolm. It's not often I offer options to the people I own. It's only my soft spot for Jessica that has me granting you this privilege."

The hands on Malcolm's hips dig in even deeper, grinding against his bones like a vice.

"I know your father was absent for a good portion of your life, but I'm sure he taught you manners before his hobbies caught up with him," Nicholas threatens.

Malcolm holds out as long as he can, until the ache in his hips becomes as sharp as the pain inside of him and Nicholas begins snapping his hips with a violence that punches the air from Malcolm's lung again.

"Thank you, sir!" Malcolm finally wails when Endicott doubles down, clearly intent on getting exactly what he wants.

Whether it's Malcolm's submission or the fresh wave of tears that the brutal fucking triggers, it's enough to set Endicott off, his rhythm stuttering as he starts to come. Malcolm sucks in a shuddering breath, hoping that everything is coming to an end, but then Nicholas shouts and falls forward onto Malcolm, pinning him beneath his weight as his body jerks on top of him.

Malcolm whimpers as the jerking motion initially pushes Nicholas deeper inside of him, but then Nicholas's cock slides out of his abused hole and the man drops to his knees between Malcolm's legs. It's only then that Malcolm understands what the hell just happened.

Ainsley is standing behind Endicott, butcher knife wrapped tight in her white knuckled grip as she plunges the blade over and over into Endicott's back. Every time she yanks the knife out, his blood splatters back over her, coating her in a spray of vivid red droplets.

She's already sporting a split lip that's sluggishly trailing blood down her chin and a rapidly swelling eye that Malcolm immediately attributes to the man that was supposedly guarding her, but she doesn't seem to notice, completely oblivious to everything outside of the blade that's buying their freedom.

She stabs him again and again, until the blood is gushing from his wounds, flowing over his sides and staining Malcolm's skin with its sticky warmth.

"Ains," Malcolm tries, but it's hardly more than a feeble breath that he barely even hears himself. He needs to close his eyes, to hide himself away from everything that’s happened since he walked through that front door, before he can try again. “Ains. Stop.”

It’s not much, but it’s enough.

She stops.

The world stops.

Endicott is dead weight in his lap, his blood enveloping Malcolm like a warm bath, flowing over his skin before seeping into the settee below. And Malcolm can’t bring himself to move.

He’s shaking — a fine tremor that’s quickly turning into something more, something that rocks his entire body and shakes through his soul and leaves him cold on the inside like he’s never felt before. Like he’ll never be warm again.

But then he looks up at Ainsley and sees the fear in her eyes. And he recognizes that look from his mirror, on the worst days, when he’s sure he’s going to turn out just like his father.

He forces down everything he can. Every emotion that tries to break free, every thought that crowds his brain, every instinct in his body that’s still screaming at him to run. 

Because his sister needs him.

And he’s going to protect her. Like he promised he would.

“It’s okay, Ainsley.” He doesn't sound like it's okay. Nowhere near it. But it’s the best he can do. “Blanket?”

He waits for her as she moves on autopilot, a vacant look in her eyes and the knife still clutched tight in her hand, raised to shoulder level like she's ready to attack. He waits until she hands him a throw blanket — an exquisite cashmere that likely cost more than his suit and that his mother will skin him for ruining — before he pushes Endicott’s lifeless body to the floor, covering his nakedness with the throw. When he tries to sit up, though, another sob rips free of his lips and he falls back against the cushions as his insides throb and pulse.

Ainsley blinks herself awake at the sound, dropping the knife like it's burned her and taking a quick step back from the carnage in front of her.

Panicked eyes find Malcolm's and he knows what she's going to ask before she even opens her mouth.

"What happened?" she whispers, eyes darting to Endicott, to him, to her blood-soaked hands. "Are you okay?"

No. He's not.

He doesn't think either of them are.

But they have each other, and the threat to their family and friends is gone forever.

He doesn't answer her question, doesn't know if he can. Instead, between hitched breaths and nearly silent weeping, he whispers what he hopes is the truth.

"It's over now. We're safe."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to KateSamantha for looking this one over and not giving me _too_ much of a hard time for the lack of comfort elements ❤


End file.
